


i'll write your name

by Damkianna



Series: it's a love story [2]
Category: Battle Creek (TV)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Community: battlecreekmeme, Denial of Feelings, Fuckbuddies, Insecurity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They fuck for the first time on the Friday Holly leaves for that goddamn cruise with Coffee Shop Guy.</p><p>Written in response to the battlecreekmeme <a href="http://battlecreekmeme.livejournal.com/1092.html?thread=6468#t6468">prompt</a>: "Russ ... knows he isn't good enough for Milt[;] Milt thinks Russ is still in love with Holly and just using him." (Paraphrased—full prompt in author's notes!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll write your name

**Author's Note:**

> The full original prompt in all its glory:
>
>> Russ loves Milt but if there was someone interested in Milt, who would be better for him, Russ would graciously step aside because he knows that he isn't good enough for Milt and cannot understand why the agent would want to be with him.
>> 
>> What I'd like is for Milt to overhear Russ telling someone this, Font or maybe the Commander, and then waits until they're at one of their place's (and all of a sudden it makes sense why Russ won't move in with him despite spending so much time at Milt's) before he confronts Russ.
>> 
>> Turns out Milt thought Russ was still in love with Holly and was just using him, that sooner or later Russ would leave him, and he'd been trying to harden his heart against the inevitable break-up.
> 
> I didn't actually manage to stick to the prompt very tightly (/o\\), so this is more of a fuckbuddy story inspired by it than an established relationship story that fills it. But the central set of insecurities was SO PERFECT and I just COULDN'T NOT WRITE THIS. OOPS. Seriously, this is bigtime idfic right here, and also probably the least pornographic fuckbuddy story you will ever read. SORRY NOT SORRY. And, belatedly, thank you again to [PhoenixWytch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixWytch) and [girlwiki (Aachren)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aachren/pseuds/Aachren) for their very kind commentary and support while I was posting this to the meme as a WIP. YOU ARE BOTH GREAT AND SHOULD FEEL GREAT.
> 
> This story contains a little bit of dialogue from 1.10 ("Stockholm"). **Warning** for slightly-drunk-but-not-incapacitated sex; the characters involved are not heavily impaired, are always consenting to the fullest degree possible before, during, and after, and do not have a problem with it, but just fyi, it happens.

  


  


They fuck for the first time on the Friday Holly leaves for that goddamn cruise with Coffee Shop Guy.

The timing's no coincidence. Russ is pissed at himself, and by extension with everyone and everything around him—he's so awful that even Milt (Milt!) starts being short with him, visibly frustrated. When they manage to close the case anyway, Jacocks doesn't hesitate to insist on the whole office going out for drinks, and it's not hard to guess that she's hoping a little booze will help make Russ even slightly less horrible to be around.

It doesn't. It possibly makes Russ a little quieter about it; and it maybe makes him slower on the draw, because when Milt pulls him aside on his way back to their table from the bar bathroom, Russ doesn't just shove him off and keep walking.

"Listen, Russ," Milt says.

"Man, fuck off," Russ spits.

Milt's mouth flattens. "No," he says firmly. "Look, I really think you should talk to somebody—"

"What, you volunteering?" Russ says, and barks out a hoarse half-laugh.

Milt's jaw clenches and unclenches, and probably the reason he doesn't answer for a moment is because he's reciting one of his stupid mantras to himself. God, Milt is the worst. "It doesn't have to be me," he says in the end, deliberately even. "I just think you should—"

"I don't want to _talk_ about it," Russ hisses. "What the fuck good is that going to do?" He shakes his head. "I don't—I don't want to _talk_ ," he repeats, and he shoves Milt back against the other wall of the bathroom hallway in a sudden rush of anger and kisses him.

It makes a weird kind of sense, in the moment: Russ feels pissed off and stupid and defiant, and he's sick of feeling it at himself—he wants somebody else to be mad at, and for somebody else to be mad at him. He wants to fight and get called names and have someone tell him he's an asshole for something _other_ than letting Holly slip through his fingers.

So he kisses Milt. Which, in retrospect, he should have known better than to try that, because when the fuck has Milt ever reacted to anything in a way that makes Russ's life easier? Never, that's when—including this time. Because Milt doesn't punch him in the face or yell at him. Milt doesn't even push him away and tell him he must have had too much to drink. Milt—kisses him back.

A little awkwardly, maybe, because Russ didn't exactly give him a great angle to work with. But there's definitely an answering pressure against Russ's mouth for a second before Russ backs off.

Russ steadies himself and tries to catch his breath, and against the wall Milt seems to be doing basically the same thing, and so they end up just standing there in the hallway blinking at each other like idiots for a minute.

"Yeah?" Russ says, because he doesn't know how else to ask.

Milt's face is totally unreadable; but he shrugs a shoulder and doesn't look away.

"Somehow I didn't have the impression angry hatesex was your kind of thing," Russ prods.

Milt doesn't flinch. "Guess you don't know me as well as you thought you did," he says coolly.

Russ stares at him for a little longer and thinks. This isn't exactly what Russ was planning on doing tonight—but then again what Russ was planning on doing tonight boils down to "get hammered and then go home alone to cry into the toilet while trying not to vomit", so it's not like he's sorry to have another option. He and Milt already resent the hell out of each other—how much worse can this make it? Best of both worlds, really, getting to screw somebody you already know without having to worry about ruining a friendship in the process. And as for the sex itself, well, Russ has always been a fan of that old saw about fucking being like pizza: even when it's bad, it's still pretty good.

(If nothing else, Russ thinks, Milt seems like the kind of guy who always makes sure the other person comes first.)

"My place," Russ says, half a dare. He doesn't know what he's expecting to happen—the window where punching him is a reasonable response has already passed Milt by, after all. For Milt to tell him he's nuts, maybe, that Milt could find a better offer on any street corner in Detroit. That Russ is kidding himself if he thinks anybody like Milt would ever seriously, willingly—

But instead, bewilderingly: "Okay," Milt says.

So—okay. Okay then. Russ's place it is.

  


*

  


Russ is a little buzzed but definitely under the limit, so he can still drive himself, which is good—Milt having to drive him to his own place for a one-off would be awkward on so many different levels. As for the fucking, well. Russ figures the booze isn't impairing his judgment any worse than how angry and sad and tired he is. (It certainly isn't enough to impair his dick, which is totally on board.)

And, weirdly enough, Milt seems to get that. He doesn't ask Russ whether Russ is _sure_ , because—because hell if Russ is sure about _anything_ since Holly left. And he's not—it's not that he's _careful_ with Russ, exactly. Which is good, because if he were Russ would have to punch him in the head until he cut it out.

But he's—thoughtful. Nice. Well, obviously he's nice, because it's Milt; but not just in ways Russ might have expected. Milt has warm, strong hands and doesn't mind kissing—and he doesn't overdo it either way, doesn't get harsh the way some guys do when they're trying not to be "too gay", or soppy like this is something other than what it is. And he doesn't do anything weird like cradle Russ's face tenderly or tell Russ about his feelings, thank God. But he holds onto Russ the whole time they're getting off together, the hand that's not around their dicks steady and anchoring against the nape of Russ's neck; and he doesn't shove Russ off him afterward or avoid eye contact. Even setting the thing with Holly aside, Russ has stuck with women for a long time because he had enough of that crap in college, assholes who thought a one-nighter with a dude meant they could come on him without having to actually look at him or touch him—but Milt's not like that.

So: it's nice. The only thing Russ really regrets about it is that they weren't coordinated enough to try anything more complicated, because if they had it would probably have been even better.

Oh, well, Russ tells himself, and doesn't let it turn into _maybe next time_ , because—nah. It happened, it was good, it's over. It's not going to happen again.

  


  


* * *

  


  


It happens again.

Not all the time, or anything, and it isn't—not on the job, not when they're on shift. The work stuff is all fine: Milt doesn't get weird about it, they're totally normal levels of hostile toward each other, and they solve their next case together just like usual. Russ gripes at Milt about good old-fashioned legwork and Milt nods along and then cheats with some fancy FBI piece of crap, and Russ yells at him. It's all good.

It's at the end of the day where the problems start, in the evening. The first time after the first time, Russ doesn't even really mean to do anything, he just—he's packing up his shit and he accidentally looks over at Holly's empty desk, accidentally thinks about all the dark silence waiting for him back at his place, and then somehow he's pausing in front of the doors to the resident office. And Milt's right there, about to shove them open; and he pauses too, looking up, and meets Russ's eyes through the glass. And maybe there's something in Milt's face or maybe it's just that they hold the stare too long and they both know it, but either way Russ is suddenly sure he knows exactly what's going to happen.

He waves a dismissive goodbye at Milt and drives back to his place alone, with a zing tripping up and down his spine that just won't quit, and he goes inside and waits—he doesn't touch himself or anything, he _doesn't_ , but it doesn't matter. He's hard anyway by the time Milt's car pulls up outside.

So that's the next time. It happens twice more—two days in a row, even, which Russ should have guessed was a warning sign—before Holly gets back from Aruba or whatever, and by that point Russ is starting to _learn_ shit about Milt. Like—Milt swallows, because of course he does (which means Russ has to, too, or else Milt wins). Milt's easy, relaxed, perfectly steady, through 98% of everything; but when he's really, _really_ worked up, his thighs start to shake just a little. He doesn't seem to have strong feelings about what they do as long as it ends in an orgasm, as willing to be pressed up against Russ's kitchen counter with Russ's hand down his pants as to actually get in the bedroom and take some clothes off—but when he comes he likes to be able to look at Russ, to be touching Russ somewhere other than just on the dick. (Which, Russ realizes intellectually that he should probably put a stop to that if they're going to keep doing this, but honestly he likes it best that way, too.)

And then, suddenly, Holly gets back.

  


*

  


The cruise was five days, but Holly took an extra day on either end to give herself some leeway—she hates feeling like she has to schedule herself down to the minute when she's supposed to be relaxing, and Russ really needs to quit dwelling on the fact that he knows shit like that about her.

And it's not like Russ somehow lost track of the day or anything—as if! He was kidnapped, he didn't get _amnesia_ —but all the same it feels oddly surprising to see her. She's a little more tan, maybe, but mostly she looks the same. Mostly she looks like nothing's changed.

"Hey," she says, dimpling.

"Wow—hi," Russ manages.

Making small talk about her trip with Coffee Shop Guy—oh, sorry, _Brady_ —is awkward as shit, and Holly can maybe tell exactly how much Russ hates it, because she lets it end pretty quickly. Russ listens to her walk away and then stares down into the unsympathetic depths of the coffee pot, and he doesn't know how long he's standing there before he hears Milt.

"—a beer?"

Russ blinks and turns around. "What?"

The wrong thing to say, somehow, even though it's one fucking word: Milt's expression turns stiff and defensive. "What? Is that such a weird idea? If you don't want to—"

"No, no," Russ says quickly, "I, um—I didn't hear you."

"Oh," Milt says, and now his face is just plain unreadable.

Russ scratches the back of his neck so he has an excuse to look away. "Sorry."

He's ruined it, he's pretty sure—whatever Milt was asking him to do, get a beer down at the bar or go over to Milt's for one, he can guess how Milt figured it would end, and Milt wouldn't have been wrong. But Russ has screwed it up, wrecked the mood that had Milt coming to ask him, and—

"Would you like to grab a beer?" Milt repeats.

Russ looks up. Milt said it kind of oddly—gently, even—and the look on his face is odd, too, his mouth soft and his gaze steady, not annoyed at all.

Russ stares right back and wavers. He shouldn't say yes, probably, with that stupid uncomfortable conversation with Holly hanging over his head—not that it matters _that_ much, when he started this thing in the first place because he was fucked up over her already. But everything Ford said about Milt is still rattling around in Russ's head, and—and hell if Russ is seriously going to take advice from a kidnapper, but goddammit, it can't be that great for Milt, can it, doing this with somebody who's thinking about somebody else?

Well, except that isn't quite it, because really Milt's been great for getting Russ to _stop_ thinking about Holly all the time. And Milt wouldn't ask if he didn't want to, so—

"Yeah," Russ hears himself say. "Yes. Please."

  


*

  


It gets a little weird that time. Not weirder than Russ can handle, or anything—and honestly it's more his fault than Milt's. He just—being so close to Milt again reminds him of what it was like to be in that basement, how relieved and glad he was, how fucking fantastic it felt to lean on Milt and be held up, and have Milt's arms come up around him—the way Milt's stupid hand landed on the back of Russ's neck, exactly where he put it that very first time they—

Anyway. Russ's mind isn't 100% in the moment, is the point, and so it gets a little weird. It takes longer, for one thing. They're both pretty tired and all, and that makes them slower: Russ unbuttons Milt's shirt one step at a time instead of just yanking it off him, and his hands are clumsy, brushing against Milt's chest over and over again on the way down. They kiss, like always, because kissing is awesome, but they don't keep it quite as firm—usually it's hot, energetic, to-the-point, but this time neither one of them can manage to keep the pace up. Instead it gets slow, a little lazy. Russ hooks an arm around Milt's neck and feels himself kind of relax into it, almost as happy just to breathe against Milt's face with his eyes shut as he is to actively be sucking Milt's tonsils, and Milt doesn't nudge him out of it. It gets to the point where they accidentally just stand there for like ten minutes, making out with their shirts still half-on, and nobody's foot on the gas.

So, yeah: weird.

The actual sex is also a little weird. Because of how tired they both are, this is obviously not the right night for them to level this hatesex thing up the point where anybody's fucking anybody else in the ass; and as much as Russ could use a blowjob after a day like today in the abstract sense, he doesn't actually _want_ one. Milt down on his knees just seems like he would be—too far away, or—whatever, Russ doesn't even know. He's just not interested in that today.

So they mack for a while, and then Russ remembers there's actually a point to all this and gets Milt's shirt the rest of the way off, and Milt does the same for Russ. It takes even longer to get rid of everything else, but it's worth it: once they finally get in the bed (and it's Milt's this time, which is new), there's something really great about just—being warm and naked and touching, all that skin everywhere and Milt's ridiculously comfortable zillion-count sheets surrounding them. It's—it's really nice.

And honestly at that point Russ barely even cares about the orgasm part of the proceedings—and barely cares about how he doesn't care, which is even weirder. So there's no real urgency about any of it: they just lie there, tangled up, kissing sometimes or just pressing their faces together and breathing each other's air, and stroke each other off until they've both finally come.

And then the thing that tips all this over from "weird" to "a problem" happens:

Russ falls asleep.

  


  


* * *

  


  


It doesn't _seem_ like a problem, not immediately. Russ's dreams are suddenly invaded by a weird tinky piano, and then he opens his eyes and the weird tinky piano is still there—Milt's alarm, a neutral little spray of notes cascading in a loop. Russ lies there with an arm flung over his face, musing to himself about how of _course_ Milt's alarm is some restrained, pretentious, emotionless hold music; and it's only after he's been doing that for a minute that it occurs to him that he really shouldn't be able to hear Milt's alarm unless—

He peers out from under his arm. The shades are still pulled, and there's no light on, but yeah, he's totally still in Milt's bedroom: the paint's as dark and classy as the bedcovers, and none of it bears any resemblance whatsoever to Russ's faded walls and lumpy comforter.

It still doesn't quite feel like a problem, even after a tilt of the head allows Russ to confirm that Milt is indeed gone—because he hasn't gone far. The bedroom lights are off, but the door's open, and light and noise are spilling in from the kitchen. If Russ isn't mistaken, that scrape-scrape-hiss is the sound of Milt making scrambled eggs. (Pretentious ones, because it's Milt, with cheese—Christ, probably gouda or something—and marjoram, thyme. Russ takes a deep breath through his nose and squints at the ceiling. Onions? Scallions? _Something_ else. Jesus, Milt's such an overachiever.)

Which, Russ _could_ freak out, he thinks, but what's the point? That'll just draw attention to the fact that Russ stayed the night without meaning to—that'll _make_ it a problem, but it doesn't need to be. Russ can just get up and stumble out there, burn himself on Milt's coffeemaker and eat Milt's totally excessive but probably delicious eggs, and then—he checks the time. Yeah, he's not going to have trouble making it back to his place for a change of clothes. Treat it like no big deal, and it will be. Easy.

  


*

  


So Russ treats it like no big deal, and mostly it works. Milt's coffeemaker isn't the gleaming futuristic monstrosity Russ was expecting, but rather a beat-up little thing that looks like maybe Milt got it by stealing it from the janitorial break room at the Detroit FBI office. Russ shambles toward it and grunts a response to Milt's cheerful greeting, and by the time he can get his eyes to open more than halfway, about a mug and a quarter later, the eggs are done.

(They're exactly as excessive and exactly as delicious as Russ predicted. Russ tells Milt only one of these two conclusions directly; but the way Russ cleans his plate may give away the other. Milt solves crimes for a living, after all.)

And Milt doesn't act off or anything, doesn't corner Russ to ask him why last night got as weird as it did. He makes two servings' worth of eggs and dishes them up without any fuss, looks up from the paper to smile a goodbye at Russ when Russ edges toward the door and then goes right back to it. It's obviously not a big deal to him, either.

So, Russ figures, they're good. Maybe some people couldn't hatesex-while-tired without getting bent out of shape over it or needing to know what it _means_ for their _relationship_ , but some people aren't him and Milt. They're fine.

He gets away with thinking this for about five hours before it comes back to bite him, but then again he really should've known.

  


*

  


It's Holly again, because nobody can throw a wrench into Russ's internal gears like Holly can—she corners him near the end of lunchtime to talk some more about Brady, or at least that's what it seems like to start with. He's trying not to listen too much and thinking about shoving a coffee stirrer through his eye to get away, and then two things happen at the same time.

One is that, as Russ is glancing around the office to avoid meeting Holly's eyes, he catches Milt looking back at him—and Milt looks totally normal, he really does, but something makes Russ double-take anyway, makes him narrow his eyes and examine Milt's face a little more carefully. And the other is that before Russ can finish figuring out whatever's nagging at him about Milt, the tone of Holly's voice changes in a way that makes Russ's ears suddenly tune back in.

"—making me think about what's really important in my life," Holly's saying—softly, a little coaxingly, and that voice means she's asking Russ to look at her, so Russ does. She smiles at him a little nervously, bites her lip and adds, "I mean—I mean, _who's_ important."

Russ blinks and then stares at her. His heart's started to pound, but it's—it's not in a good way, somehow, and he's not entirely sure why. "Well," he manages to mutter, "I mean—hey, yeah, that's good, because—everybody should get the chance to do that, you know, take a step back and—" Jesus, somebody get him a gag already— "really figure out how to—"

"Russ," Holly says, gentle. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"

"—prioritize," Russ finishes on autopilot, and then swallows. Are there any more words in the English language? Because suddenly it feels like he's managed to run out of them.

"Tonight," Holly clarifies. "Maybe—seven o'clock or so, if that's okay?"

Russ looks at her. She's gorgeous and so sweet, a little shy and still asking even after all these years of Russ dicking around, and there go those fucking dimples—she's exactly as wonderful as she's ever been, so there's absolutely no reason in the world why Russ should open his mouth and hear himself saying, "I—uh—I—actually, I have a thing."

Holly looks completely astonished for a split second, and then recovers admirably with another warm smile. "Oh, okay. Great."

"Yeah," Russ says, inane. "Yeah, it's—sorry. I can't."

"No problem," Holly says gracefully, and reaches up to squeeze Russ's shoulder—and she really is a champ, because every line of her body is screaming _SERIOUSLY, DON'T PANIC, RUSS, I STILL CONSIDER US FRIENDS_. "Rain check?"

"Yeah," Russ stumbles on. "Yeah, no, sure, that's—that would be great. Thanks."

"Great," Holly says, and squeezes Russ's shoulder one more time, and then she turns and heads back to her desk. Russ stares after her, wondering what the everloving fuck just happened, and catches himself and turns away, back toward Milt. Milt, who's still looking at him, who saw the whole thing; and before Russ can stop himself he's hightailing it the fuck out of there—he doesn't stop moving until he's all the way down the hall and inside the supply closet with the door shut, where he can close his eyes and wait for his heart to stop slamming itself against his ribs in peace.

  


  


* * *

  


  


So, okay, there's something wrong with Russ. It's not like it's hard to tell, once the evidence is lined up. Ask anybody in the office: no way would Russ sleep over at Milt's place and then happily eat breakfast across from him in the morning, and double no way would Russ ever turn down a dinner invite from Holly. There's _definitely_ something wrong with Russ.

And the kicker is that he really can't blame Milt for it. He _wants_ to—his first instinct, staring at the vague shadows of a thousand boxes of paperclips in the dark, is absolutely to work out in what way this is Milt's fault and how exactly Milt managed to make it happen. But—

But Milt wasn't the one talking to Holly. Milt was on the other side of the room. And Russ has already acknowledged to himself that he was at least as responsible for their bout of weird sex as Milt, and maybe even more so; even if that somehow contributed, Russ still can't blame Milt for it. It's not Milt's fault at all. It's _Russ_ who's changed, just Russ: Russ who jumped Milt in that bathroom hallway, Russ who slept in Milt's bed and ate Milt's pretentious eggs and now apparently is letting one round of weird sex get to his head. _Milt_ hasn't let the weird sex get to _his_ head—Milt's been totally normal.

It's just Russ; and damned if that isn't scary enough to make Russ's heart start pounding all over again.

  


*

  


The next two weeks are marked by two things.

Thing 1 is that Russ is an absolute raging asshole to Milt. It's like some kind of out-of-body experience: Russ clocks in and then spends eight or nine hours watching himself spit terrible things at Milt—really _terrible_ , spiteful, demeaning, about everything from Milt's appearance to his work as a federal agent, and most of them aren't even true—and then he clocks out and walks down to the parking lot, and spends ten solid minutes beating his head against his steering wheel. He just—he can't shake this awful sick feeling that Milt _knows_ something, knows something or has seen something or—or _will_ see something, and somehow Russ being as horrible to him as humanly possible is the only way to prevent it.

Thing 2, which is even worse in certain ways, is that Russ thinks—or, really, can't _stop_ thinking—about the weird sex, with a kind of helpless obsessive focus that doesn't make any sense considering how little actually happened. And it didn't bother him at all the morning of, but now every time his brain wanders back there it makes his face hot, makes his hands shake—it makes him feel raw and ill and like everybody's looking at him, like he's standing in the PD lobby with no clothes on. Which, being a huge jackass to Milt doesn't do anything to make that feeling go away, but it does make Russ stop feeling like Milt can _tell_ Russ is feeling that feeling. Like, if Russ is enough of a dick, Milt won't be thinking about how Russ let things get weird or ate Milt's eggs or let Holly walk away from him—he'll just be thinking, _Jesus Christ, Russ is such a dick._ Which is—safer somehow, or—better, or—well. It doesn't really matter what it is, now that Milt presumably completely fucking despises Russ. And Russ definitely can't hold it against him, because, Jesus Christ. Russ is _such_ a dick.

And then one morning a car gets blown up outside a city park, and suddenly all bets are off.

  


*

  


The cornfield happens. Milt spilling his guts in a car trunk happens. Casey's dad happens, and so does Milt's idiotic stunt with the goddamn gun, which takes about ten years off Russ's life.

It all ends okay, and Milt gets carted away to the hospital afterward for the GSW—and Font tries to make Russ go along because of the head wound, but Russ doesn't do it. It's not that bad—it bled a lot, yeah, but head wounds are like that, and it's not the first time Russ has had a concussion. If it gets any worse than a headache, a little dizziness, some nausea, he'll call somebody or whatever. He didn't lose any teeth, and his ribs are sore where Brock kicked him but not broken, and he hasn't cracked his skull or jellied his brain or anything. He's fine.

He repeats this about six times and doesn't let Font drag him a single step closer to the ambulance, and eventually Font gives in: he unlocks the cuffs from around Russ's wrists and drives Russ back to the PD instead. Russ goes home and spends a long-ass half-hour or so washing the blood off—lights off because his head's killing him, nothing but the low afternoon sunlight shining gold off the walls and the sound of water swirling down the drain.

He strips down after to his undershirt and briefs, which are sweaty but not bloody, and shoves it all in the washing machine: all of it, the pants and the jacket and the shirt, Russ's blood on the collar and the mud from the cornfield all over the knees and elbows, the look on Milt's face when that homicidal whackjob put the gun to Russ's head—

It's still light out when Russ is finished, but he doesn't give a shit. He goes and lies down, spread-eagled over the middle of his crappy bed in his crappy apartment, and he stares at the ceiling and breathes. It was—it was a hell of a lot of blood, and that stuff gets _everywhere_ —it was all over Russ's face, obviously, from the side of his head and from where Brock smashed him in the mouth; and his neck, his shoulder, too—and his hands. Although—although the blood on his hands was mostly Milt's, he thinks. It's safe to: there's nobody there to see the wetness he ends up having to knuckle away from the corners of his eyes.

  


*

  


After the cornfield, Russ stops being a shit. (Or at least he stops being so much more of a shit than usual.) He's been handling this thing all wrong, like somehow he needed to stop Milt from getting too close or wanting to be around him too much. But that—that's the _opposite_ of what Russ needs to start bracing himself for. Russ should have figured it out a lot sooner. Because he _is_ a shit, even when he doesn't want to be, even sometimes when he's trying his best not to. And even if he manages to trick Milt into thinking it's not a huge mistake to start having sex with him again, sooner or later it'll all add up. One week or three, six months or a year, whenever. It'll add up, and someday it'll be more than Milt's willing to put up with just for an easy shot at half-decent sex.

Russ doesn't have to push Milt away at all—Milt's going to go on his own. Russ just has to be ready for it, that's all.

  


  


* * *

  


  


Russ doesn't visit Milt in the hospital. He doesn't ask Font or Holly or Guz questions when they come back from their visits, and when they inevitably fill in the whole office on Milt's condition, he listens and nods and then gets back to work.

The day Milt comes back, Russ is just as careful. He nods to Milt when they pass each other in the lobby in the morning—and Milt's talking to Jacocks, so Russ shoots her a flat look and makes a mild crack about how they can all finally get back to work now.

Russ doesn't go into the resident office any more than he has to, doesn't offer to bring Milt files or buy an extra sandwich at lunch and leave it on Milt's desk. Soon enough, there'll be a case, and Russ and Milt'll have to work it together. Seeing as Milt's going to be hitting a—a quota, a saturation point, Russ might as well let it take him a while to get there. No rush.

  


*

  


By the end of the day, Russ is pretty goddamn tired. He's got to pass the stupid resident office one more time before he can get out of the building, and it feels like running a gauntlet, like doing 80 pushups and then getting shoved in front of a free-climb wall. Ugh.

And then, of course, just when he's almost in the clear, Milt comes out. At the sight of him fumbling with the door, trying to open it and get his jacket over his shoulders at the same time, Russ slows helplessly.

The sling's just there for support, Russ knows, to give Milt's arm a rest and remind him not to do any heavy lifting. But it still looks awkward as shit, and before Russ knows what's happening, he hears himself say, "Need any help getting home?"

Milt's head snaps up. He must not have realized Russ was there. He's got a great poker face: he doesn't look surprised or wary, doesn't look anything except blank. And then Milt tilts his head and smiles—perfunctory, Russ thinks, and feels his heart sink.

"That's very kind," Milt says, because: Milt. "Thank you, but no. I'll be all right."

"Okay," Russ says tiredly, and turns away. That answers that, then—

"But I—might need help opening a beer later."

Russ looks back over his shoulder. Milt's taken a step toward him, and his expression isn't exactly _warm_ , okay, but Russ wouldn't have expected it to be; it's pleasant enough, though, a little tentative.

"Yeah," Russ says, and allows his voice to turn dry. "Those damn two-handed bottle openers."

He's teasing, pointing out the—bent twig on Milt's olive branch, kind of; but he doesn't mean it as a shut-down. And Milt must get that, because after a second he smiles.

  


*

  


Russ drives to Milt's with his throat tight and his heart thumping, and then once he gets there he just sits outside for a minute so he can get a grip.

It turns out Milt wasn't kidding about the beer. Milt's got a rerun of some old basketball game on, one open bottle in his hand and a second sitting at the other end of the coffee table—waiting for Russ, and something about that stupid second bottle makes Russ feel like he should turn around and get right back in his car.

But he doesn't. He sits down and takes the beer and watches the goddamn basketball game with his knee pressed up against Milt's through their slacks. And it's getting weird again, obviously, but—

But Milt just got out of the hospital, and this is his show. If he needs a little time to get in the mood after Russ was a dick to him for two weeks and then he got shot, then that's okay. Russ can put up with it.

  


*

  


He's expecting Milt to want to back things up, start over; he's not expecting Milt to hand him lube.

"Uh."

Russ looks up; Milt's watching him patiently, the line of his shoulders relaxed. And speaking of shoulders—

"Are you—I mean, not that I don't want—but your shoulder—"

"So be careful," Milt says, light, and tosses a condom at Russ's free hand.

"Yeah, okay," Russ says automatically, catching it; but what he's thinking is that this is the least careful he's ever been. Doing this, fucking Milt like this (face-to-face, Russ knows, because that's how Milt likes to do all of it)—Russ has been a cop for more years than he likes to think about, has been shot and stabbed and even, once, set on fire. But fucking Milt like this is the most goddamn dangerous thing Russ has ever done. "Yeah, okay," Russ says again, and does it anyway.

  


  


* * *

  


  


Astoundingly, Russ manages to avoid screwing things up again after that for—for _months_. Not that it's all sunshine and roses: it takes a couple weeks for Russ to really get comfortable yelling at Milt like he used to, and sometimes the sex is normal but sometimes it gets kind of odd again. Russ tries to keep a lid on it, not get bogged down in kissing or let things get strange, and mostly it works. And Milt must not be too freaked out by the times when it doesn't, because he never calls Russ on it when Russ messes up.

Russ's place is pretty awful, so they end up at Milt's more often than not—and Milt's an overachiever with everything he cooks, not just morning-after eggs, so sometimes Russ heads over there on Friday evening and just kind of _stays_ 'til Monday. Like, he's going to be over there at least twice a weekend anyway so they can bang; why shouldn't he get a bunch of Milt's ridiculously well-cooked dinners out of it? They eat and argue, watch a movie and argue, fuck and fall asleep, and then wake up and argue and start over again. It works—and if it ain't broke, why fix it?

Eventually, though, something does break. It's not actually Milt, or Russ, or their arrangement—it is, of all things, a pipe in Russ's building.

  


*

  


Russ's building is old and creaky, and his super sucks—the guy can't seem to hang on to any kind of long-term maintenance agreement with anybody local to save his life, and the cost of getting repeated one-time fixes means he's always fucking dragging his feet. So when Russ wakes blearily from a dream of having water flicked at him by a grumpy cat only to discover that there actually is water dripping onto his face, the second thing he thinks is that it's going to be like three weeks before anything gets done about it.

The first thing is, of course, _Aw, shit._

He deals with it as best he can. He refuses to sleep curled around a bucket, so, first things first, he's got to drag his bed out from under the drip. After that he turns the light on and takes a closer look at things, and it's actually pretty scary: there's an obvious _spot_ creeping out across the ceiling from where the drip's coming down near the corner of the room, damp and vaguely orangey—and, thrillingly, down the wall, toward Russ's closet—

"Aw, _shit_ ," Russ mutters.

  


*

  


When he gets to work at last, it's after spending half an hour bunching towels up against his baseboards and moving all his clothes, and he had no option but to put on a damp, vaguely orangey shirt that smells like hard water. Milt notices, obviously, even though Russ tries valiantly not to be a dick to him just because Russ's ceiling is full of water—they're trapped in a car together all day and Russ smells funny, of course Milt notices.

He doesn't say anything about it 'til later, though. Possibly it's a tactical decision, to wait until Russ is sprawled out on Milt's couch with a stomach full of Milt's awesome steak and a cold beer before bringing it up. At any rate, when Milt does ask, Russ doesn't hesitate to oblige him with an answer. Russ could happily gripe about his terrible super all day—and definitely for way longer than the forty-five minutes Milt gives him before interrupting.

"That bad, huh?"

"The _worst_ ," Russ groans, letting his head drop onto the back of the couch. "That guy, I swear—when Mrs. Prudholm's sink clogged up last year? I was stuck late at work two weeks straight, and I still ended up fixing it faster than that douchebag could get off his ass and find a plumber."

He's expecting something calm and reasonable out of Milt about how Russ should call the building's owner and complain, or contact a plumber himself—but Milt doesn't say anything, and after a second Russ tips his head back up to see what's up.

As far as he can tell, nothing's wrong: Milt's just looking at him, a little soft-eyed. Milt opens his mouth and then stops, presses his tongue against his teeth. And then he must decide to just go for it, because he clears his throat and says, "You—you shouldn't have to stay there, with a leak like that."

Russ snorts. "Yeah, well, it's not like I _want_ to. It's gross, man, you should see my ceiling. But as long as I can keep the mattress dry, I'm pretty sure it's still better than sleeping at my desk—"

"You could stay here."

Russ stares.

"Temporarily," Milt adds, when Russ just sits there blinking at him, and then shrugs a little stiffly. "I didn't mean you should—"

"No, yeah, sure, of course you didn't," Russ says quickly, because he really, really doesn't need to hear Milt actually say the words _move in_. He understands fine: Milt doesn't want Russ to get the wrong idea, and why would he? Being around Russ 24/7 for two or three weeks probably sounds pretty bad to Milt all by itself—hell, having to be around Russ all day at work and then also on the evenings when they fuck must be straining the limits of Milt's tolerance already.

Probably he just feels like he ought to make the offer, since they're screwing on the regular and all. Because Milt would do that, wouldn't he? He feels responsible for the wellbeing of random losers they run into on the street while they're working a case, of _course_ he feels responsible for the guy he's boning.

And, man, doesn't the thought of being Milt's responsibility just make Russ feel all warm and fuzzy. Jesus Christ. The clock's already ticking on this thing with Milt—being an obligation Milt feels like he has to take care of is only going to make that time run out faster.

It is tempting, for a split second, to think about saying yes. Milt _offered_ , after all, even if it was only for form's sake—he wouldn't exactly be able to object if Russ called his bluff. And if Russ stayed on his best behavior (like _that_ would last more than a day), if he somehow managed to lull or trick or—or just wear Milt down until he didn't mind anymore—

But that's a dickish thing to do to somebody. And Russ is trying to be _less_ of a dick to Milt, not more of one.

So in the end, what Russ says is, "It's fine. I mean, you know—thanks, man, that's really—I appreciate it. But—no."

"Sure," Milt says pleasantly, totally unruffled. "Just thought I'd offer."

Yeah. Right. Of course he did. Russ forces half a smile at him and then flees into the kitchen for another beer.

  


  


* * *

  


  


Everything's kind of fucked up for a few days after that. Russ is completely aware that his behavior is making Milt suspicious, and equally as completely unable to stop it: he talks to Milt about work and nothing else, and every time Milt so much as hints that he's trying to bring the conversation around to inviting Russ over for a fuck, Russ bails as quickly as possible and runs the hell away. It's just too weird, going over to Milt's place. Being there with Milt, surrounded by Milt's stuff, with extra beers in the fridge for Russ and Milt getting out two plates for dinner—it's almost like Russ _did_ move in. But he didn't, and he won't; and he needs to remember that or he's going to mess this up in a really big way.

But, of course, Russ's apartment is still all wet. He manages to get the right pipe shut off, though of course he's got to do it himself, and he has to go door-to-door to everybody downstream of the break and explain what's up—though most of them have already guessed there's something wrong, since their water pressure's gotten weird. He stops by Mrs. Prudholm's to borrow a hairdryer, and then spends two nights in a row blowdrying his walls and ceiling as best he can.

By the third day, Russ's hands ache—who knew hairdryers were so goddamn heavy?—and he looks like shit. His shirts are dry, but still discolored; and he falls asleep in the car in the middle of the afternoon and doesn't realize what's happened until Milt's already nudging him awake, which means Milt definitely noticed. Dammit.

  


*

  


Milt's at least merciful enough to not confront Russ in the middle of the office. He fills Guz in on the results of their little field trip while Russ nods along and tries to pretend he was conscious for all of it; and then as they're leaving Guz's office, Milt nods toward the resident office and raises an eyebrow.

"Okay," Milt says, once they're safely behind closed doors. He's speaking slowly, evenly, like he's already trying to avoid having this turn into a fight, even when he's only said one word. "I—I realize that I did something wrong, or—made you uncomfortable—"

"What? I don't know what you—"

"Russ," Milt says carefully.

Russ shuts up.

"I crossed a line somewhere," Milt repeats, "and I apologize. But, Russ, you're—"

He pauses, groping for a diplomatic word, but Russ is pretty sure there isn't one. "A mess," Russ admits.

"Yeah," Milt agrees. "Look, just—just come stay with me, all right? It's not just a drip and you know it. Once your building manager gets his act together, your whole ceiling's probably going to need to be replaced—"

And boy, does Russ ever want to tell Milt he's wrong, but he kind of isn't. Even with the drip stopped, Russ hasn't been able to talk himself into moving his bed back where it used to be. He doesn't want to wake up one morning with a lapful of plaster once all the water damage gives way. "Yeah," Russ says instead, rubbing a knuckle behind his ear.

"Okay," Milt says, apparently satisfied. "So I can be at your place before dinner, we can get your stuff together—"

"What? No!" Russ blurts. "No, it's—look, I can—I'll find someplace else, you really don't have to—"

"Russ," Milt begins, frowning.

"I said _no_ , okay?" Russ shouts. "Jesus, Milt! Back off!"

He figures there's a decent chance it'll work. Milt's been pretty low-key through this whole thing, never pushing Russ for explanations about the nights he doesn't come over, never asking Russ for anything more than once if Russ doesn't seem interested the first time, never pushing.

But Milt's brows draw together unhappily, and he straightens up like he thinks he's facing off against the FBI director or something and says, "Why not? Russ— _look_ at yourself. Why not?"

Russ is about to try to come up with an answer—and fuck knows what he's going to say—when Milt suddenly goes pale and starts looking sort of ill.

"Russ," he adds, very calm and careful, "we—we don't have to have sex or anything if you don't want to, that's not—"

"No! God, no," Russ says, because Milt, like, pressuring Russ into banging when Russ isn't in the mood is about the last thing Russ is worried about. Christ, Milt is so weird. "No, look, that's not the problem, okay? The sex is—the sex is great, no complaints there. The sex is awesome. I just—" Russ sighs, and reaches up to massage one temple. God, why does Milt have to make him _say_ this? "I don't want to be in the way."

Milt frowns again. "Well, I—how much furniture were you thinking you'd try to move?"

"What?" Russ says, confused, and then almost gives up and puts his face in his hands. Is Milt doing this on purpose? "No, no, shit, not _physically_ , Milt. I mean—" Time to take the plunge, Russ thinks, and says it: "I mean sooner or later you're going to find somebody else, man. Somebody who's, you know—who you can really—"

Across from him, Milt's gone still, gaze fixed on Russ's face like somebody nailed it there. "Who I can really what?" Milt says, very softly.

"You know!" Russ says, frustrated, throwing up his hands. "Somebody who you really—who you _want_ to have move in, and have your key on their keyring, and see first thing in the morning, and—whatever. I'm not an idiot, okay, Milt? You don't want me for that stuff. You don't."

Milt looks at him, unblinking and still kind of weird and pale. "You don't want me to want you for that stuff," he says coolly.

Russ doesn't know what he'd expected Milt to say, but that definitely wasn't it, and Russ isn't prepared for it at all. He feels his eyes go wide, feels himself physically startle backwards, and there's absolutely no way Milt misses it.

And—yup, there it is: Milt's eyes go wide right back at Russ. Shitfuck. Now Milt's going to _apologize_ to him, probably, for—for leading him on or something, and tell him they'd better quit fucking; Milt's going to feel _sorry_ for him, Christ, and what an endless frozen hell that's going to be.

Except all Milt does is blink at Russ like a kewpie doll, _bink bink_ , and say, "But you're—"

"What?" Russ snaps.

"You're in love with Holly," Milt says blankly.

"... No, I'm not," Russ says.

"Yes, you are—"

"Uh, I think I'd know," Russ says.

"But you—"

"Oh my _god_ , Milt, please do not try to tell me you can memorize a hundred-page case report but you can't manage to _listen to the words coming out of my mouth_ ," Russ snaps. "I am not in love with Holly! That's been over for like—what, four months? She asked me to dinner after she got back from Jamaica, and I said _no_. I'm—I'm not in love with Holly."

Milt stares at Russ for a long moment, searchingly, and then swallows.

"But," Russ says slowly. "But you—thought I was."

Milt says nothing.

"You thought I—this whole time? Then why the fuck did you ask me to move in?" Even temporarily—that's a weirdass thing to do to yourself, Russ thinks, when you're banging somebody you think would rather be banging somebody else, unless—

Unless you just—really want to. Unless you're kind of hoping maybe somehow they'll change their mind, or at least start thinking about it.

"Are you kidding me?" Russ says, eyes narrowed. If Milt is bullshitting his way through this, or—or trying to be _nice_ —

Milt swallows again. He looks—Jesus, he looks uncomfortable as hell, shoulders knotted up under his suit jacket and a really harsh, blotchy red blooming over both cheeks; but he swallows a third time and then says, real slowly and firmly, "No."

"You—what?" Russ says, flabbergasted. When is this conversation going to start making sense again? "Oh, come on, Milt. Are you really expecting me to believe you're serious about this?" He gestures between them a little awkwardly.

Milt keeps staring at Russ like a cornered deer for a long second; and then suddenly his face changes and his eyes go narrow. "What exactly is it you think I want so much that I'm not getting?" he says. "What is it you think I'd leave you for?"

 _Leave you_ , Christ. Just listening to the guy is giving Russ second-hand embarrassment. "Oh, give me a break," Russ says, scoffing, because Milt has got to be kidding him. As if Russ is just going to stand there for the next forty-five minutes listing off all the shit that's wrong with himself? Please. Russ looks away, crossing his arms. Milt's already making him say this; Russ isn't giving Milt that and eye contact too. "As if you don't know you could do better."

Milt's silent for a long moment. Russ keeps looking at the floor—which isn't saying anything either. And then, low, Milt says, "I couldn't."

"Milt, Jesus—" Russ says, because he doesn't want to hear this, doesn't want to listen to Milt lie about this; but then nothing else will come out. His knuckles are white where they're wrapped around his arm, he notices dimly. When did that start?

Milt's feet appear in Russ's field of vision, one gleaming dress shoe and then the other, and Russ accidentally looks up without thinking.

"I couldn't," Milt says again, gently, brass-balled, right to Russ's face like he believes it; and then he relents. "Or—I don't want to."

Russ looks back at him for a second, and—and, fuck, if he's lying then he must be lying to himself, too, because he sure as shit _looks_ like he means it. And maybe he'll keep meaning it or maybe he'll find out he doesn't, but—

But either way, Russ is just too damn selfish to turn him down.

So Russ makes a face, hopefully conveying just what he thinks of Milt's evident break with reality; and then he shakes his head, clears his throat, and stuffs his stupid unsteady hands into his pockets. "Whatever," he says, and, thank God, it comes out credibly level. "Your funeral. Come on, we can't stand around yammering all day—"

"No, no, of course not," Milt agrees, businesslike, moving a half-step back; and then he reaches into his own pocket and fishes around for a minute. "Let's finish this up later," he adds quietly, and then holds out his hand, and the thing he got out of his pocket is—

A key.

Russ wonders distantly how long it's been in there, whether Milt was thinking about asking even before the pipe broke, and then tells himself firmly to quit wondering. He looks at Milt's face; and then at Milt's desk, and then at the key; and then at the floor, at Milt's face again, at the wall—

Jesus. _Come on, you idiot_ , Russ tells himself, and he blows out a breath and then lets himself snatch the thing off Milt's palm. "Fine. Fine, you—self-righteous asshole."

"Stubborn jackass." Milt's tone is mild.

"Yeah, yeah," Russ mutters, hand wrapped tight around the key's cool weight. "Fuck you."

"Later," Milt says, straight-faced but a little wicked—like he thinks it's actually a _good joke_ , the dweeb—and then, at the look on Russ's face, he tilts his head back and laughs.


End file.
